“Which will be Alan Moran,” Min Koryo said, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.
“Unless we release Vincent Margolin.”
“And cut our own throat. We’d be better off making him disappear for good or arrange to have his body found floating in the Potomac River.”
“Listen, aunumi,” said Lee Tong, his black eyes glinting. “We have two options. One, the laboratory is in perfect working order. Lugovoy’s data is still in the computer disks. His mind-control techniques are ours for the taking. We can hire other scientists to program Margolin’s brain. This time it will not be the Russians who control the White House, but Bougainville Maritime.”
“But if Moran is sworn in as President before the brain-control transfer is accomplished, Margolin will be of no use to us.”
“Option two,” said Lee Tong. “Strike a deal with Moran to eliminate Margolin and pave his way to the White House.”
“Can he be bought?”
“Moran is a shrewd manipulator. His political power base is mortared with underhanded financial dealings. Believe me, aunumi, Alan Moran will pay any price for the Presidency.”
Min Koryo looked at her grandson with great respect. He possessed an almost mystical grasp of the abstract. She smiled faintly. Nothing excited her merchant blood more than reversing a failure into a success. “Strike your bargain,” she said.
“I’m happy you agree.”
“You must move the laboratory facility to a safe place,” she said, her mind beginning to shift gears. “At least until we know where we stand. Government investigators will soon fit the pieces together and concentrate their search on the Eastern Seaboard.”
“My thoughts also,” said Lee Tong. “I took the liberty of ordering one of our tugs to move it out of South Carolina waters to our private receiving dock.”
Min Koryo nodded. “An excellent choice.”
“And a practical one,” he replied.
“How do we handle the congresswoman?” Min Koryo asked.
“If she talks to the press she might bring up a number of embarrassing questions for Moran to answer about his presence on board the Leonid Andreyev. He’d be smart to pay for her silence also.”
“Yes, he lied himself into a hole on that one.”
“Or we can run her through the mind-control experiment and send her back to Washington. A servant in Congress could prove a great asset.”
“But if Moran included her in the deal?”
“Then we sink the laboratory along with Margolin and Loren Smith in a hundred fathoms of water.”
Unknown to Lee Tong and Min Koryo, their conversation was transmitted to the roof of a nearby apartment building where a secondary reception dish relayed the radio frequency signals to a voice-activated tape recorder in a dusty, vacant office several blocks away on Hudson Street.
The turn-of-the-century brick building was due to be demolished, and although most of the offices were empty, a few tenants were taking their sweet time about relocating.
Sal Casio had the tenth floor all to himself. He squatted in this particular site because the janitorial crew never bothered to step off the elevator, and the window had a direct line of sight to the secondary receiver. A cot, a sleeping bag and a small electric burner were all he needed to get by, and except for the receiver/recorder, his only other piece of furniture was an old faded and torn lobby chair that he’d salvaged out of a back-alley trash bin.
He turned the lock with his master key and entered, carrying a paper sack containing a corned beef sandwich and three bottles of Herman Joseph beer. The office was hot and stuffy, so he opened a window and stared at the lights across the river in New Jersey.
Casio performed the tedious job of surveillance automatically, welcoming the isolation that gave him a chance to let his mind run loose. He recalled the happy times of his marriage, the growing-up years with his daughter, and he began to feel mellowed. His long quest for retribution had finally threaded the needle and was drawing to a close. All that was left, he mused, was to write the Bougainville epilogue.
He looked down at the recorder while taking a bite out of the sandwich and noted the tape had rolled during his trip to the delicatessen. Morning would be soon enough to rewind and listen to it, he decided. Also, if he was playing back the recording when voices activated the system again, the previous conversation would be erased.
Casio had no way of guessing the critical content on the tape. The decision to wait was dictated by routine procedure, but the delay was to prove terribly costly.
“May I talk to you, General?”
About to leave for the day, Metcalf was in the act of snapping closed his briefcase. His eyes narrowed in apprehension at recognizing Alan Mercier, who was standing in the doorway.
“Of course, please come in and sit down.”
The President’s National Security Adviser moved toward the desk but remained standing. “I have some news you aren’t going to like.”
Metcalf sighed. “Bad news seems to be the order of the day lately. What is it?”
Mercier handed him an unmarked binder holding several sheets of typewritten paper and spoke in a soft, hurried voice. “Orders direct from the President. All American forces in Europe must be pulled out by Christmas. He’s given you twenty days to draw up a plan for total withdrawal from NATO.”
Metcalf slumped into his chair like a man struck with a hammer. “It’s not possible!” he mumbled. “I can’t believe the President would issue such orders!”
“I was as shocked as you are when he dropped the bomb on me,” said Mercier. “Oates and I tried to reason with him, but it was useless. He’s demanding everything be removed — Pershing and cruise missiles, all equipment, supply depots, our whole organization.”
Metcalf was bewildered. “But what about our Western alliances?”
Mercier made a helpless gesture with his hands. “His outlook, one I’ve never heard him voice before, is to let Europe police Europe.”
“But good God!” Metcalf snapped in sudden anger. “He’s handing the entire continent to the Russians on a gold tray.”
“I won’t argue with you.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll comply.”
“What will you do?”
“Go direct to the White House and resign,” Metcalf said adamantly.
“Before you act hastily, I suggest you meet with Sam Emmett.”
“Why?”
“There is something you should know,” Mercier said in a low tone, “and Sam is in a better position to explain it than me.”
63
The President was sitting at a writing table in his pajamas and bathrobe when Fawcett walked into the bedroom.
“Well, did you speak with Moran?”
Fawcett’s face was grim. “He refused to listen to any of your proposals.”
“Is that it?”
“He said you were finished as President, and nothing you could say was of any consequence. Then he threw in a few insults.”
“I want to hear them,” the President demanded sharply.
Fawcett sighed uncomfortably. “He said your behavior was that of a madman and that you belonged in the psycho ward. He compared you with Benedict Arnold and claimed he would see your administration wiped from the history books. After he ran through several more irrelevant slurs, he suggested you do the country a great service by committing suicide, thereby saving the taxpayers a long-drawn-out investigation and expensive trial.”